


Process

by Romanec



Series: Artistic Suicide [3]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: A glimpse into Charles' writing process, Alternate Universe - Artists, And not insane, Charles is a writer, Erik is a painter, M/M, Or possibly a little, no powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 11:21:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Romanec/pseuds/Romanec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik comes home and stumbles across Charles caught in the midst of inspiration for a story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Process

Single ice-plated snowflakes, splattered against the window as though dying to get away.

Erik's hand is hard on the golden handle of the door as the Sun casts accusing glow.

Or dying to get in.

He pushes it forward, enveloped in a harsh encompassing warmth that flows around him like the steam of a smoldering mug. 

The faint murmurs of a familiar voice.

"And what would you say, Paul, if I could end that? If I could find some way to take that from you? Would you listen to me then, brother, or would you continue to push me away to continue on this path from which there is no escape?"

The question is left hanging, no answer to provide point or conversation. Erik allows his scarf to fall to the floor, easing his covered canvas to a gentle rest against the wall, safe from the puddles the snow of his shoes has caused, and steps away from the door. There is the scent of cinnamon in the air; the familiar caress of phantom taste against his tongue, but his eyes see something more than the wisps of dreamt delicacies and comforting tastes. 

Charles stands in the doorway between the kitchen and what they call their living room. His blue eyes are narrowed in vacant thought as his head tilts, listening to words that Erik cannot hear; the reply left unspoken. 

"Paul..." he whispers, as though the silence has said something that is shattering his heart. A pale hand lifts, softly tracing the edge of the door-frame as though it were a beloved face, stroking patterns meant to sooth troubled spirits. "Please," he continues, a crinkle forming between eyes that gleam with slowly gathering tears. Earnestly. "Let me help you." 

Silence falls again, answers-on-breath too faint to be heard by someone who does not know the language. But it is a different silence -- completed, instead of telling, as a final response is given, and Charles falls away from himself like a child pulled from the fay, blinking rapidly as he returns to their apartment, the tears vanishing.

Flushing slightly as he catches sight of Erik's steel gaze on him. "Hello," he greets, just a pitch above the tone of before. The painter just smiles, leaning against the wall.

"Who were you this time?" Curious. 

"...Harold." The writer sighs, running a hand over his slowly-fading blush as he darts towards the table and the papers scattered across them. "Sorry, just-just a moment, I have to write this-."

"Better than cutting it," Erik quips quickly, stepping into the kitchen and closer to the temptation that waits there. "You know ... most people would think you were a little insane, talking to the voices inside your head when in reality you're talking to walls."

He catches the small, bitter smile Charles tosses over his shoulder.

"Well...so long if it's only a "little"," he agrees, turning back towards the papers and his fingers scribble quickly-fading words.

Indeed.


End file.
